Colours
by The Zazu
Summary: It was as if an artist had mixed his paints continuously, and let his brush glide across the canvas in abstract patterns. Colours flowed, images shifted, and the overall picture would not focus. Their charade was slowly crumbling to reality. [R x P]


**Disclaimer**: The author does not own the Harry Potter series.  
**Author's Note**: I realised that I would not be able to finish this as a multi-chaptered  
story, so I tweaked and added until it became a one-shot. Read it, and I sincerely hope  
you enjoy it. Also, Happy Belated Thanksgiving to everyone!

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**Colours**

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Blurred.

It was a continuous flow. One image shifted to another and back again. Then it moved to the next frame and process repeated. Patches of colour moved, sometimes rapidly, sometimes slowly, but always melding. Blue to green. Orange to yellow. Grey to black. It was as if an artist had mixed his paints over and over again, and let his brush glide across the canvas in abstract patterns. Colours flowed, images shifted, and the overall picture would not focus.

Focus.

Focus required concentration. Concentration required a clear mind. A clear mind was something a certain Ronald Bilius Weasley simply did not possess presently. Therefore he could not concentrate, nor could he focus, thus meaning he could not see the entire picture. A melancholy train of thoughts indeed. His sharp blue eyes were now glazed, unseeing as they stared off into space. One large hand curled around a dusky bottle while the other clasped a small, empty glass. Yes, that explained the colours. Blue to green. Orange to yellow...

"Rosie, lemme have 'nother bottle of firewhiskey. Right old stuff. Numbs yeh, don't it? Numb. Numb. Numb. S'warm in here, y'know. I can feel the heating spells – see Rosie? Not as dumb as I look! 'ermione was wrong. Why do I feel so cold? Bloody hell. The colours hurt my eyes. I can't make it stop. Ah well, if I die, it's with the right old stuff," he mumbled, bringing the dark bottle to his lips for a swig. Maybe the drink would help halt the string of contradictions that were leaving his mouth. Setting the empty bottle on the table, Ron added lonesomely, "They'll be the death of me y'know. Die, die, die."

Amazed.

She had never seen a student drink themselves into such a stupor, excluding James Potter. Madame Rosmerta placed her hands on her curvy hips and shook her head at Ron. "Darling, Albus is already going to hang me for giving you so much. I can't let you die of alcohol consumption. I don't want to make your hangover any worse than it will be..." The woman sighed softly. She shouldn't have given Ron anything. But when he had walked in, what a state he had been… Rosmerta couldn't help but give him _something_ to wash his sorrow away.

"B-But... b-but..." The redhead's expression turned incredulous as he tilted his head Rosmerta. A scowl appeared on his face. "Y'know, Dumbledore can't do a thing to yeh. I am seventeen years old n' I'm a seventh year n' seventh years allowed to do _anything_ on weekends. Eat that Rosie. Y'gotta gimme more. Y'gotta. I need to forget them." For the longest time he had been the odd one out; tonight had only confirmed his worst fears.

Madame Rosmerta bit her lip and shook her head. "Dear, they don't mean _anything_ when they say anything."

"Oh? What _do_ they mean then?" Ron challenged, glancing longingly at his already empty bottle of Ogden's. In the beginning it had been bitter, but now it tasted as sweet as Honeydukes' best. He glanced into the bottle and frowned. "Y'better be gettin' my bottle soon. I'm runnin' out. Only a coupla sips left. Oh, bloody hell, n'vrmind, s'already empty!"

"They mean things within _reason_," the buxom lady retorted, her hands still on her hips. "And that means you're _not_ allowed to continue drinking. You've already had _eight_ bottles and a coupla shots. I refuse to give you more." Rosmerta was all for breaking rules, but she did have her limits.

Ron narrowed his eyes dangerously and pointed the mouth of his bottle drunkenly at Rosmerta. "You, m'dear, have noooo right to judge the parameters of 'reason.' D'ya think _shagging_ is within reason?" His eyes dimmed suddenly but they soon regained their furious sparkle. "You wanna argue 'bout it? I'm a Weasley y'know," Ron reprimanded the older lady sharply.

Madame Rosmerta's eyebrows shot up. She knew perfectly well that Ron Weasley had a small crush on her when he was younger... but actually wanting to shag her? She tossed her blonde curls over her shoulder and said, "Ron, I'm sorry if I ever led you on... but I'm not interested in you like that." I can't believe I apologized for flirting, she thought idly. The world must be coming to an end. Oh wait, she thought as she rolled her eyes. It was.

To the woman's surprise, Ron started laughing. Loudly. "You... ha... thought... ha... that...I wanted to shag _you_? No! I meant ev'rybody's been shaggin' at 'ogwarts. I wouldn't be su'prised if I found Snape and McGonagall in an empty classroom. Nasty thought, yeah? Hmm, y'ever wonder if Snape gets any? He such a… I was gonna say somethin' but not polite to say things front of a lady, yeah?" Ron snorted and continued, "As I was _saying, _ev'rybody's been shagging. I found _them_ together, you see... Mind-blowing, mind-shattering, eh? 'Nother bottle 'Merta, c'mon now." He raked a broad, callused through his red hair and sighed. "Puh-leaaaassse?"

"Well..."

Clash. Bang.

"Rosmerta, give the bloke the damn bottle. Gryffindors you know... Too stubborn for their own good." The wooden door of the Three Broomsticks flew open, banging soundly against the wall. A flurry of snow flew into the room and instantly melted on the warm floor. A heavily cloaked figure stepped and stared at the puddle of water around its feet. "Sorry Rosie," she said bluntly, hardly sounding sorry at all as she sat down across from Ron. She pulled down the hood of her cloak, revealing short, shiny black hair and a rather pale face. "Bring _Weasley _his bottle and mix me a couple Bludgers. Extra rum." Hers wasn't a terribly pretty face, but it was the striking angles that attracted hordes of boys.

Rosmerta threw her hands up in the air and stomped back to the bar. This particular customer was a regular on weekends. Rosie could recognize the girl's smooth voice anywhere. "Yes Miss Parkinson. Fancy seeing you here at this hour. Almost midnight. Where's Draco?" She asked curiously as she brought out another bottle of Ron's precious firewhiskey.

"Yeah? Where's your ferret boy now, girl?" Ron added cheerfully leaning over and snatching the bottle. Popping the cap off, he took a large gulp of the firewhiskey. He sighed happily, enjoying the burning sensation tickling his throat. Pointing to the bottle, Ron grinned, "Bloody good stuff, yeah."

A shadow passed over Pansy's face as she tapped her red nails on the table. Her makeup was a tad smeared, but _Weasley_ wouldn't notice, not in the state he was in anyway. For that, Pansy Parkinson was thankful. "Well, _Weasley_, Draco's... busy and couldn't be bothered in coming down here." Rosmerta passed the chocolate rum drink to the girl. "Thank you Madame. Now, you look tired, go to bed. I'll take care of the bill and such. Don't you worry. I know the drill," she said dismissively as she savored the warm taste of the alcohol. Already she was feeling a little fuzzy.

The older woman nodded dubiously as she went up the stairs. "Go back to the castle safely, you two. I suggest, Miss Parkinson, that you assist Ronald back. Feel free to snatch some Anti-Ache Potion from behind the counter too, for headaches." Pansy nodded assent, rolling her eyes.

Demanding.

Ron suddenly leaned forward and raised an eyebrow. "_Weasley_? You're a Slytherin, aren't you? Only a _Slytherin_ would say my name like _that_! Who are you?" His voice was disgusted as he muttered the slurred words. Abruptly his face lit up as banged his hand on the table. "I know _you_. You're... you're... that Pansy Parkinson girl. The one that always simpered over the ferret boy!"

Pansy grimaced. Why did Draco keep appearing in the conversation? She regained her composure quickly and delicately sipped the Bludger. "Weasley, you're absolutely _smashed_. It took you long enough to recognize me. After all, I am wearing your favourite colours," she sneered, gesturing toward her green cloak and silver scarf. "Now, where is your Mudblood girlfriend and Potter? Golden Trio had a fight?" Pansy asked in a baby voice.

Ron waved his hand in the air. "Colours, only colours. I'm a bit dazed y'know... Dunno why either..." That didn't answer Pansy's question.

"A bit dazed? What an understatement," Pansy murmured herself with a smirk.

"Shush, love, and let me finish!" Ron commanded, propping his feet on the table. "You must be quite dense if y'think green and silver are my favourite colours. It's orange, didn't you know? My _ex-_girlfriend and Potter are... busy, as you so aptly mentioned earlier," he continued, forming quotations around the word 'busy.' "That's why _I'm_ here. I'm sure you'd be here if you saw Hermione, the most prissy girl upon the face of the earth, shagging the Boy-Who-Lived. It's a scarring sight, I assure you. I've always been… what do they call it? Yeah, the _third wheel_. Now, who was Draco... 'busy' with Pansy?" Suddenly, for a drunk man, Ronald Weasley had an awful lot of sense.

Pansy blinked. Potter and the Mudblood? How interesting... "You're speaking quite civilly to a Slytherin, you know that? The entire Wizarding World may know of this conversation by tomorrow evening. Watch what you say." What was happening? Why was she even warning him? She twirled a lock of her black hair and glared menacingly at the Gryffindor. "It's none of your business. You need to learn how to stay out of some things, Gryffindor," snarled Pansy, then digging her nails into the table.

Smiling.

A goofy grin spread across Ron's face as he drank. "Speaking to a Slytherin, am I? There is a first for everything, I s'pose..." He paused as he drank some more. "Mmm, that's the stuff. Where was I? Oh, yes. People will be wondering how you got this information. Wandering around the halls after curfew? Talking to a _Weasley_? It's all going to bite you in the arse." Ron paused, "You can tell me y'know. What's said in the bar stays in the bar, right?"

The pale girl remained quiet before letting a malicious smile on her face. "It wasn't shagging, per se, but I walked in Draco snogging a certain Weasley."

Ron nearly fell out of his seat. "He flies on _that_ side of the Quidditch pitch, does he? Never would have guessed..."

Pansy glared him, impatient. "No, no. He was snogging, what's her name? Ginevra."

"HE WAS SNOGGING MY LITTLE SISTER? WHO DOES HE THINK HE IS?" Ron roared, standing up. "I'll go n' get him, that bugger... Just because he's good doesn't mean he has the right touch my sister!" A few more colourful obscenities left his mouth as he finally sat now. Ron sighed resignedly. "Merlin… I might need some more of this," he muttered half to himself, looking at his bottle. "Sooner or later I'll drown. It wouldn't be so bad. I'm already dying here." He put his hand on his heart, a bit melodramatically.

Pansy's smile faded as she downed her third glass. "A Gryffindor with a good idea. We might as well get it over with, right? We've all been dying since the day we were born. Kudos to you, Weasley, for a rare stroke of brilliance." She smirked weakly once more, crossing her arms and raising a brow. "Oh my, you _have_ matured. Bravo, Weasley, I am surprised. You know what you ought to do? I think you shouldn't care about what they do. Go find yourself a girl – if you can, that is. You are a Weasley, after all." Pansy studied the broad-shouldered Gryffindor with new eyes. He wasn't all that bad-looking.. She suddenly inspected her nails idly, frowning at the chips in the paint. "You know, you aren't that bad for a Gryffindor… when you're completely pissed anyway." Pansy eyed Ron's bottle. "I don't think you should have another, Ron. What number was that?"

"Nine. See?" he said simply, holding up four fingers. "You aren't bad for Slytherin… when you aren't around Malfoy. If you didn't look down upon us poor Gryffindors, your nose might not be so… so _pug-like_. Just a word of the wise," Ron said solemnly. "You're pretty, actually. Not in the normal sort of way, but all angle-y and cute and _that_ kind of pretty." Ron didn't notice slightly pink tinge colouring Pansy's cheeks.

"I might keep that in mind, Weasley. To celebrate this ground-breaking moment, let's make a toast. To mistakes," Pansy said dryly raising her glass, her hand shaking slightly.

Ron followed suit and echoed the words. The red-haired boy slurped down the drink and sighed contentedly, and tried to look at Pansy. Her face was covered in a haze. Fog, he mused, where'd it come from? Abruptly something else blurred his vision. Everything was swimming around him. The images were floating. There mere seconds in which he had grasped the final picture, the final idea, had dissolved. Ron blinked his eyes, trying to focus. He needed concentration in order to focus, and a clear mind in order to concentrate. A clear mind was something he did not have.

Colours.

Blue to green. Orange to yellow.

Grey to _black_.

-

The next morning, Professor Severus Snape nearly choked on his oatmeal when he saw Ronald Weasley and Pansy Parkinson eating breakfast together. Civilly, at that. Professor Minerva McGonagall fought vainly to hide her shock, as did a rather rumpled duo of Harry Potter and Hermione Granger. Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, on the other hand, smiled knowingly.

Finally, the colours intermingled.

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**Author's Note**: I am very satisfied with this piece.  
**Reviews are lovely!**


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